I'm the Hero
by Emerald-Leaves
Summary: AU Cold War setting, America and Russia face off for the last time. Warning: violence, blood, character death, all that good stuff.


**Warnings: **AU, violence, blood, character death, all that good stuff.

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_**I'm **_**the Hero**

It had all come to this. It was just the two of them, facing each other, in the confrontation that was always meant to be. There was no one else to get in their way now. It had been decided, the leaders of the two nations no longer wanted to take the chance of destroy the world, no longer wanted to fight, and so they were gambling, sacrificing their own countries. One nation would live on, the other wouldn't. That was how it was to be.

Russia stood ready, his pistol at his hip. He waited with a patient smile as America stepped up, his own gun safe in its holster. There were no real rules to this fight except one: one of them had to die. There would be no one to interfere with the fighting, no one to stop them. No breaks, no referees, no nothing. They would simply fight until one was dead. That was just how it was going to be.

Grinning over at the younger nation, Russia giggled. "You look nervous, comrade. Is the hero afraid of death?"

For once, America did not respond. For once, the usually boisterous, loud country was quiet, taking his gun out of his holster. His usual smile was nowhere to be seen, and his joyful face was dark and grim. There was no trace of the usually vibrant man. It was strangely unnerving to the Russian how his enemy had changed. Even in the bitterest moments prior of this Cold War, America had always shown some sort of arrogant display, some liveliness. But for some odd reason, he did not then, not in the end.

Laughing again, Russia happily smirked at the stoic American. "Does this remind you of your Old West?" he mocked. "Do you feel like a cowboy again? Facing off for a shootout?"

To this, America scowled, but did not respond to the barb. "Are you ready?" he asked instead, glasses catching the light and shinning back at Russia like a warning signal.

"Whenever you are, comrade!" he beamed, waiting for the American to make the first move, which he knew the other would do. Despite the change in demeanor, America's hero complex could never be destroyed or hidden, and such as it was, he would come charging forward to defeat his "villain". _And will go down in a blaze of glory,_ Russia smirked to himself.

As predicted, America lifted his gun and fired a quick shot, not really expecting to actually hit his opponent. And thus the battle began between the two superpowers.

Russia had planned this fight out for weeks. He had every move calculated, had every possible scenario planned. He studied America's history, studied the life of the nation. He knew how the other thought, how he talked, how he fought, how he moved. There was no doubt in Russia's mind that in the end, he would win, that he would finally be able to be at peace with the other nation gone.

So, after dodging the shot, Russia moved quickly, producing his beloved pipe from his back and charged towards the American at the same time, not wanting to waste a shot, just in case. For his part, America seemed to have also thought this fight out, at least to a point, and jumped out of the Russian's way, and rolled towards an old table. When he stood again, he was holding a shovel and, just in time, blocked Russia's strike against him.

Loving the excitement of the battle, Russia laughed, his insane hilarity bouncing off the walls of the old warehouse that had been chosen to house the war. It was an impressive display of might the two nations showed as they each pushed against each other, trying to make the other falter. They were both equally strong, they both knew this from the start; the only question was: which one would be able to _endure_?

Taking advantage of no rules, Russia pushed once very hard before using one leg to kick the American's knee. Not use to really fighting such a fight, a fight with no rules, no regulations, no sense of fair play, America let down his guard just a bit, hissing in pain. But he did not have long to think about his leg, because a second later, Russia swung his infamous pipe and hit the blond as hard as he could across the shoulders, hard enough to have crushed bones had America been a normal human.

As it was, America was not a normal human, but he did feel the pain all the same. He went down, stunned, Russia supposed. He wondered how much that had hurt. But he did not think on it too much, because the moment the other nation was falling, he took it upon himself to kick the capitalist solidly in the stomach.

It was almost disappointing how well the fight was going. Russia had really expected better out of his enemy. After all, America had been the only country able to stand up to him, to oppose him without being crushed. Had they really been fighting so long that it was wearing the American down already? The thought was pleasing, but it did not hold the same allure as the younger nation standing and giving a good fight. He had really been expecting better.

But that tone of thought did not last long, for the moment his foot contacted with America's stomach, Russia felt a sharp pain shoot through his side. Surprised, he cried out, and staggered backwards. He cursed wildly, and looked down at his side. There was a large hole in his coat where blood was seeping out. He looked up with surprised violet eyes to see America sitting up on his knees, panting, holding a wicked looking hunting knife. Blue eyes burned into the larger nation, even as the younger spit out a mouthful of blood. "Fucking commie," he hissed, his eyes alight with something Russia could not place.

But the pain was soon replaced with excitement. So, America _was _good for a fight after all. This pleased the Russian. He was not sure where the little democrat had gotten the weapon, but it promised for a good brawl. A feral smiled crept onto the Slavic nation's face. "Tisk," he purred, his voice dropping down low. "That was not very nice, America. Perhaps I should teach you a lesson, _da_?"

America stood, holding his knife expertly in his hand. "If you can," he shot back; his eyes still alight with the new emotion Russia did not understand.

Laughing once again, unconcerned about his wound, Russia charged forward, dodging America's swings with his knife, while alternatively, America was dodging Russia's swings from the pipe. They danced around each other in an intricate, deadly ballet; each meaning to overpower and dominate the other. It might have been called beautiful, their movements, had it not been known that each intended to destroying the other completely.

Guns were left forgotten as the two preferred to fight more of a direct combat, each wanting to seize the satisfaction of taking the life of the other with their own hands. They fought for hours, neither one speaking much, each drinking up the other's cries of pain greedily when they landed a blow. Their battle could be heard from blocks around, as they broke anything and everything in their way, not caring what it was.

After a time, Russia, as much as he loved the challenge of a good fight, was beginning to tire, and with it came worry. America was proving to be much harder to defeat then he'd previously thought. No matter how many times he hit the younger nation, kicked him, America always got up again or fought on, each time, blue eyes hardening, becoming colder and colder as hatred ran through his veins.

It came to a point that the fight lost its initial appeal to both parties, and their struggles became more and more desperate, each one just wanting it to end, yet both too stubborn to fold, knowing that if they failed, so would their country. Blood was spattered, trailing the nations as they brawled with each other. As fatigue set in, and pain began seeping deep into their exhausted bodies, movements became sluggish, strikes less accurate.

It was after a spectacular miss that Russia realized he was wearing down, and by the looks of it, more so than the American. The blue-eyed nation slashed him across the arm, cutting deep, and it was only a lucky blind swing by Russia that allowed him to unsettle his attacker enough to stagger back and away. He was losing. That was becoming fatally clear to the larger country, but at the same time, he wasn't afraid. No, not even America's vicious snarls, his murderous eyes, could strike fear into the heart of the supposed communist party.

Why was he not afraid? Even as his mind told him he was losing, Russia did not feel panicked. He saw worry and fear deep in America's eyes, surrounded by his outward displays of hatred and concentration. After all, this fight was to the death. If he did not win, he would be killed…And yet he was not afraid. He had been so sure that he would gain victory at the beginning of the fight, was he still lost in that allusion?

With America coming towards him again, Russia pulled back and began readying a final swing. This was it, he was certain it was. The end was drawing near. He knew he was only physically capable of one last good swing before he would collapse. He had lost his drive somewhere during the fight, he did not know where, but he did.

Looking at his opponent, he could tell America was on his last leg as well, but there was something different about America. While Russia was readying himself for one last go before the end, America, though drained and injured, did not look like he was going to give up, not until he could not rise again. Such burning determination was breathtaking, and somewhere deep inside of him, something stirred within the old nation, like something he felt long ago but forgot.

It was in that moment that Russia realized that he'd already lost. While he was still not afraid, he was also certain that he would lose, because no matter what, America would never quit. No matter how much the younger nation had to harm himself, he would never quit until he had destroyed his greatest enemy. Laughing to himself, Russia readied his pipe. _I'll go down in a blaze of glory_, he thought, smiling bitterly.

And it was when America was nearly within striking distance that Russia froze, understanding his feelings. Russia was an old nation, very old compared to some. He had lived through some of the worst hells imaginable, suffering, striving, clawing his way through existence until he was able to be on top. He had done some terrible things in his life, had destroyed and conquered many people just as he had been conquered long before. At one point in his life, Russia had fought for his freedom, had fought the oppressors. He had _been _in this kind of situation before.

…Only now, it was been the other way around, wasn't it? While America was a dominating force in the world, he also did not want to completely suffocate and control the world. He wanted peace, wanted everyone to get along, even if it meant jumping into danger and getting involved as well. America really did believe that he was a hero. And at that very moment, America was not fighting just for himself, the younger nation truly believed that he was fighting to free the world of evil! That he was fighting to care for the world!

Russia understood that look in America's eyes now because _he_ had once held that very same expression, against the Mongolians, against the Golden Horde, against so many that had tried to oppress _him_. He had been able to defeat even the worst of peoples with only _just _that look, and now America had it. There was no way he was going to win. Because in the end, Russia had turned into exactly what he'd been fighting against for centuries.

But something happened in that most critical of moments. It was a fluke really, an accident! But it happened. Just as Russia was about to give his final blow, America waiting for it to come before he moved in for the kill, a noise from the outside could be heard. Screams, desperate and needy. "America!" it called. "America!"

It was due to a youthful mistake, and that was all. Hearing his name being called so desperately, as though someone else were in need of help, America lost his concentration and looked away for only a moment. But as chance would have it that was the moment Russia had timed himself to swing. He put so much force behind his swing, that when he realized that America wasn't even looking, he could not have stopped it even if he'd wanted to. So it was with the feeling of delivering a cheap shot that Russia's pipe contacted heavily with the side of America's head, and the younger nation dropped instantly into a bleeding heap.

Russia stood a moment, stunned. Had he just…won? That was impossible! America had been the stronger one! America was able to endure! America had been hell bent on destroying him! For some reason, the situation did not make sense in the Russian's mind. In the beginning, he knew he'd win, but now that he had come to the threshold of ultimate success, it didn't feel…right. It didn't feel like he'd actually won.

The outside door burst open and footsteps could be heard pounding, echoing off the walls terribly. Russia did not pay them any mind and pulled out his pistol. Tired, he knelt down on his knees and picked up America's fallen knife. Uncaringly, he tossed the knife away, not wanting the younger nation to have a weapon when he woke. He did the same with the gun.

"America!" someone screamed again, still not close enough to bother Russia and his prey.

Carefully, almost gently, Russia lifted America's head, inspecting the newest wound his pipe had inflicted. America's glassed had long ago been forgotten, and now that he was unconscious, America looked…so very young. It was a shame how young the boy was, a shame that he was going to have to die like this, not even three hundred years old as a proper country.

Slowly, blurry blue eyes opened and stared up at Russia. It took a moment for the younger nation to become fully awake and aware. The moment America did seem to realize his situation, Russia pointed his gun to the western nation's temple, cocking it. "The contest is over, comrade," Russia said softly, a truly sad smile coming over his lips.

Tears, actual tears, welled up and clouded sky blue eyes, and they began to rain down on the Russian's hand, the one still holding the boy's head. Was America truly this scare of dying? No, America was not afraid of dying himself, Russia could see that in the boy's eyes. America was afraid of failure. He had failed to defeat Russia. And something odd twisted in Russia's chest as he watched the tears stream down.

"America!"

The voice was very near, and yet did not dare interrupt the situation. But the U.S.A and the U.S.S.R did not turn to the intruder, the one that had actually given Russia the advantage. The one that had _ruined _the outcome of the battle.

"G-Go on," America hissed, glaring up at his opponent. "I suppose you won. Just…just do it and let this whole fucking thing blow over."

Suddenly, Russia was not looking at America, or rather, he did not see America _as _America. Staring deep into those beautiful blue eyes, he saw a very different boy, one fallen and beaten within an inch of his life, a boy that was just barely old enough to be out of his mother's grasp. Suddenly, Russia did not feel victorious at all. For the first time in his life, Russia _felt _like a villain. He truly and completely realized what he'd become. Everything suddenly made sense to him; why everyone was afraid of him, why no one actually liked him, why no one wanted to be near him.

He had become all of the monsters that had ever hurt him in the past. No, he was worse than all of them. He was a traitor, a turncoat, a liar, a murderer. The realization was almost overwhelming. When had this all started? When had he begun to spiral downwards until there was nothing left inside of him?

"I am sorry for this comrade," Russia said gently, smiling a true, genuine smile, the first one in years. "But it's time that the world was at peace."

Russia watched in sad amusement as America closed his eyes. Such a young nation, still just a boy really. Russia could not help but smile fondly down at his greatest rival. He ran a gentle hand through the soft, wheat colored hair. He had had a good run of it, but it was time for a change.

"_Mne ochen zhal._"Tears began spilling from Russia's eyes as well, and his hand shook as he took aim, ready to squeeze the trigger."_Do Svidaniya, moy droog."_

America's eyes snapped open, staring into miserable amethyst with something akin to panic as he watched the trigger being pulled.

**BANG!**

The gun fire bounced off the walls and the muted _thud _of a body hitting the floor followed soon after. England stood transfixed in place, his emerald eyes wide in revulsion at what he had just seen. "My God," he breathed, unable to wrap his mind around the event that had just taken place.

As though being cut from a line, England found himself stumbling forward and running to where his brother was on the ground. "America? America!"

He grabbed his younger brother and hugged him close to his chest. He looked down into wide blue eyes. "Oh my God, America," England sobbed, hugging his brother closer.

As though coming out of a daze, blue eyes blinked rapidly. America pushed out of England's embrace and crawled over to the body of Russia. He stared down at the large nation in mute horror. "R-Russia?" the young nation asked, tentatively reaching out to touch the man he had been fighting with only minutes ago. "Russia?"

England was next to his brother again, and wrapped his arms around his brother's shoulders. "Come, America…We should get you cleaned up."

America did not move from his position, and simply stared down at the larger nation. It was painfully obvious to England how confused his brother was. Britain had to admit, he was just as confused, but now was not the time to try and piece together Russia's last thoughts. At the moment, all the green-eyed nation was concerned about was getting his brother properly taken care of.

"Why?"

The question caught England off guard, though it shouldn't have, and he looked down into America's watery azure eyes. There were tears streaming down his face once more. "W-Why would he do that?" he asked again.

The elder brother did not respond for a long while, not knowing what to say. He did not understand what had happened. He had been so sure when he had seen America fall and Russia over him, that the Soviet Union was going to kill his little brother once and for all…but that had not happened had it?

"I don't know," he answered honestly; his own voice thick as he looked down at the body.

The two were silent for a long moment before America cried and threw himself over the body and began hitting it with all the strength he had left. "You bastard!" he screamed. "You bastard! W-Why? Why did you do that? I-I don't understand!"

That was enough. England wrapped his arms around his brother again, and gently, but firmly, pulled him away from the body. "We need to get you cleaned up," he tried to make his voice soothing.

"B-but I don't understand!" America cried again. "Why did he do that? What does he want? I-It wasn't fair! H-he'd won! He'd won and he…he shot hi—oh my God!" the younger nation buried his head in his hands, and sobbed.

"America—"

"Fucking communist!" America screamed. "I was supposed to be happy when you left! I wasn't supposed to feel…to feel…like this," his voice trailed off for a moment as he looked down pityingly at the Russian. "I was supposed to be happy," he whimpered.

Seeing how much guilt rested on his brother shoulders, England decided that the boy had suffered enough. "Let's go, America," he said quietly, helping his brother to his feet and limp out the door. They left in silence, leaving behind the battlefield.

Lying in the center of that old warehouse was a pool of rich, sweet blood, and in the middle of it, Russia. The expression on the big nation's face was not of rage, hatred, bitterness, or even pain. Russia's face said it all: he'd died happy. He had died not only to bring peace to the world, but to bring peace to himself. He did not leave the earth as the black hearted villain everyone expected him to be. For the first time in his life, Russia had been the one saving the world. _He _had been the hero, and he took that pleasure with him to the grave.

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**Author's Note: **…Again, I have no idea what this is. -_- I've been reading a lot of dark things for classes recently and I suppose this is just the outcome of it all. Maybe my writing will get happy again someday? Who knows. Take this as you will.

**Russian: **_Mne ochen zhal_- Мне очень жаль- I'm sorry (used more so when expressing sympathy or condolences)._ Do Svidaniya, moy droog-_ До свидания друг мой- Goodbye, my friend.

Do I have to beg for reviews? You know the drill. ^^ Please drop me one if you would be so kind. I appreciate it! :)


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